An Imperfect Union: A Story of the Higheast Rebellion
by Urbane Sombrero
Summary: IS 470 - 472. A decade removed from the bloody war that preceded its founding, the Dunan Republic faces powerful enemies, foreign and domestic, who aim to tear its fragile union apart.
1. Chapter I

_**Author's Note:** I'd like to acknowledge two individuals who have provided great help and inspiration to me throughout this process. First, I'd like to thank **Rydia Asuka** (fanfiction u/675916/Rydia_Asuka) for her generous and invaluable support. I cannot overstate how much I have appreciated her honest and extremely helpful feedback and suggestions, and she's definitely helped me steer this story in a much better direction than I was originally planning to take it. Thank you so much. I'd also like to thank the multi-talented **Canelle**, for both inspiring me with her own Suikoden fanworks and for kindly showing interest in this project. Be sure to check out her website (chezcanelle . fr) for some excellent Suikoden related writings, artworks, and comics._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I have no claim to the Konami Corporation or Yoshitaka Murayama's intellectual property._

**An Imperfect Union: A Story of the Higheast Rebellion**

**Chapter I**

Even ten years on, the city of Higheast was still very much a city in transition.

Within weeks, the Dunan Republic would be celebrating the tenth anniversary of the end of the Dunan Unification War, a date marked by the fall of this city, once the proud Highland capital of L'Renouille, and with it, the demise of the entire Highland Kingdom. By the final months of that conflict, it seemed inevitable that whatever the conclusion, when the dust settled, neither the Highland Kingdom nor the City-States of Jowston would remain. In the end, it was merely a question of which of the main leaders would survive to inherit the daunting task of uniting this long-warring, bitterly divided land under a single banner.

Would it be Jowy Blight, the last ruling monarch of the Highland Kingdom? The audacious, visionary usurper who aimed to place himself, and the Highland throne, at the indisputable center of political power in the region?

Or would it be Lord Shu? The chief military strategist and intellectual founder of the Dunan Alliance movement, who sought to join Highland and the former city-states together under the rule of a central republic?

Ultimately, where Blight wavered, Shu held fast, persuading Lord Riou, the official leader and public face of the Dunan Alliance Army, to order a swift, decisive invasion of L'Renouille city once the last Highland troops had withdrawn from Jowston territory. Backed up against the wall on their own turf, what remained of the Highland military quickly collapsed. Though Shu's brilliant strategies spared much of the city's infrastructure, and undoubtedly saved countless civilian lives, they could do little to alleviate the pure sting of the loss that many in Higheast still felt.

The fall of L'Renouille represented not only the loss of a war, and all of the concessions that must come along with that, but in a way, it represented the loss of an entire culture. The age of kings, it seemed, was coming to a close; three years earlier, the neighboring nation of Toran had overthrown its emperor, Barbarossa, and placed in his stead a representative and highly functional republican system of government.

It remained difficult for many former Highlanders to accept that their nation, which had so prided itself on the unity and orthodoxy of its society, its perceived moral and cultural superiority over the barbarians of the city-states, had been on the wrong side of history. In fact, many refused to believe it at all; refused to believe that this land, the land of the mighty Highland Kingdom, was forever destined to remain _Higheast_, a mere province of this fragile young republic now dominated by the leaders of the former city-states.

It was attitudes like this that could keep Commander Boris Wizen awake at night. As the newly appointed leader of Dunan's National Guard Corps, it was quickly becoming his responsibility to do what the local and provincial police forces seemingly could not: to curb the growth of Higheast rebel groups making increasingly bold attacks on federal buildings and employees throughout the province. Wizen's promotion was calculated, he realized; as Klaus said, the rebels and their potential sympathizers needed to know that there was a "new sheriff in town," and even here in Higheast, about as far removed from Two River as one could get in this country, the Wizen name still carried quite a lot of weight.

Boris' father, Ridley, had gained a reputation as one of the Alliance's fiercest generals: twice defeating, then befriending, Highland's legendary Kiba Windamier, helping turn the tide of the war by leading Allied troops to oust Highland forces from Greenhill and Matilda, and, perhaps most impressively, being captured by the notorious Luca Blight, facing him down, and living to tell about it.

"If the son is even half of what the father was," a pro-Union newspaper gleefully editorialized earlier in the week, "these rebels truly are finished."

Boris himself wasn't particularly thrilled with these characterizations, nor with the great expectations that came along with them. It wasn't as if Boris lacked confidence in his abilities, it was simply that he questioned the wisdom of the press proclaiming him as a savior before he even fully understood what his mission was. Failure to extinguish the growing rebellion had already set back the careers of several other promising young officers, and Boris knew all too well that the same press corps that so lionized him today would be more than prepared to tear him down with equal fervor the moment he slipped up.

_At least Klaus will be here_, Boris thought as he neared the palace, where he would soon meet the provincial governor for the first time. _Between the two of us, maybe we can get this thing under control_.

"Good day, sir," the gate guard, a slender, perky looking woman in her early twenties said as the commander's entourage approached. "You're Commander Wizen, correct?"

"Yes ma'am," Boris replied as he dismounted his horse. "Here to meet with the governor."

She smiled. "Excellent, sir. Whenever you're ready, I'll escort you to his office."

Boris detached the saber from his belt and handed it off to one of his attendants. There was no official military code that required him to do this, in fact, his father generally discouraged it. "A soldier must always be at the ready," he would say. Yet Boris thought it hardly appropriate to wear his sword to a meeting with a civil official, particularly in a place as fortified and well-guarded as Higheast Palace.

"The governor's office is on the third floor," the guard announced as she led Boris into the castle's interior. Boris wordlessly followed her, taking in as much of the structure as he could with his eyes. Though the Highland royal family that once occupied these walls was now all but eradicated, the building had lost little if any of its regal splendor.

At the end of the war, "L'Renouille Palace," much like the city itself, became "Higheast Palace," and was quickly revamped in order to accommodate the new provincial government. There had been some who took issue with the idea of distinguishing the building as a "palace" at all, thinking the name too antiquated and royalist for this budding modern democracy. Still others insisted that the castle ought to be destroyed entirely, either to deal yet another humiliating blow to the remnants of Highland or out of paranoid superstition that the terrible Beast Rune may seek to return to its former host. Luckily, the government did not acquiesce to any of these ridiculous demands, and found new use for the onetime royal palace as the epicenter of city and provincial politics.

After all, with the nation so perilously in debt at the end of the war, how could the Republic possibly pass up on such a prime piece of real estate?

Boris quickened his pace to keep up with his exceptionally energetic escort, forcing himself not to slow or stop completely as he quietly admired the exquisite architecture and furnishings of the palace. His father would not be impressed; though the Wizens were certainly well-off financially, in the kobold tradition, Ridley insisted that the family live simply. Though Boris was eternally grateful to his father for pouring the bulk of his fortune into his son's education, he had long held an almost secretive admiration for the artistry and craftsmanship of human designs, and privately wished at times that he could live in a more elegant home.

Most of the kobolds in Two River seemed to look down on their human counterparts for their extravagant tastes in buildings, clothing, and lifestyles, yet Boris could hardly get enough of it. He had loved visiting Two River's Parliament House as a child, and had spent many enjoyable hours exploring the buildings of Muse's new Federal District. Still, none of them could quite compare to the grandiose majesty of this old Highland relic.

_Had I not been born into a military family_, Boris thought wistfully, _perhaps I'd have been an architect_.

The guard, seeking to break what she felt was an uncomfortable silence between them, suddenly spoke up. "Well sir, Lord Windamier arrived some time ago."

Boris momentarily panicked. "K-Klaus is here?" Could he possibly be running late? On this day, of all days, the day of his first meeting with Higheast's governor?

She giggled, clearly taking note of the anxiety in the commander's voice. "Don't worry, sir," she reassured him. "Lord Windamier has a reputation for showing up early."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Boris said, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he attempted to regain his composure. The strategist did have a habit of arriving to his appointments ahead of schedule, presumably to allow time to set up the myriad of charts and maps he employed in his presentations.

When the duo finally reached the third floor, Lord Windamier indeed had arrived, and, much as Boris expected, he was already hard at work jotting down some figures on a chalkboard set up in front of the fireplace. From his vantage point in the hallway just outside the main entrance, Boris could spot detailed maps of the province, the larger Republic, and the entire Northern Continent set up on a series of easels strewn across the room. So engrossed was the boyish looking tactician in whatever he was working on that he didn't seem to notice the commander and his escort as they entered the governor's office. Boris immediately seized the opportunity.

"You know, Klaus," he called out, "no one is going to deny that you're an exceptionally clever strategist, but I'd hardly trust you to be a watchman."

"You underestimate me, friend," Klaus murmured, keeping his back turned to the pair as he intently finished his writing. "I could certainly hear the two of you coming," he said as he spun to face them. "I simply wanted to make sure that I got all of this information down before any of the specifics escaped me."

"So what you're saying then is it's not your hearing that's shot, it's your memory."

"Ha! Well played, Boris. Now who's the clever one?"

"It's good to see you again, Klaus," Boris said, pulling his friend into a warm handshake.

"Always a pleasure to see you, _Commander_," Klaus replied with a bit of a smirk. "And do accept my congratulations on your promotion."

"Heh…I was just about to introduce the two of you," the guard cut in, a bit nervously. "But it seems that you're already well…acquainted."

"Indeed we are, Miss Sadie," Klaus said, draping an arm across Boris' shoulder. "In fact, this poor fellow has had to put up with me for the better part of ten years now."

"Has it really been that long?" Boris inquired in mock amazement.

Klaus chuckled. "I'm afraid so, friend."

"So, Lord Windamier," Sadie interjected, "has the governor been back here at all yet?"

"Not yet, unfortunately," he replied. "Those assemblymen tend to keep him busy. But, not to worry; he trusted me to hold things down here while he was away."

"I don't doubt it, sir," she said with a smile. "Well, I suppose I'd best go back and try to hold things down at the gate, as best as anyone can, anyway. It was nice to meet you, Commander."

"Lovely to meet you as well, Miss," Boris dutifully responded. She grinned, saluted the two men, and exited the room.

"If you'll forgive me for just one more moment," Klaus said as he released the kobold's hand. "I have a few more things to finish setting up."

"No problem, Klaus, we'll catch up later. Do you need help with anything?"

He shook his head. "No, you relax, Boris. You've had a long trip, I'm sure. Help yourself to some tea," he added, pointing to a small table by the entryway. "The governor always keeps a fresh pot on hand for his visitors."

"How kind of him," Boris remarked, sounding mildly impressed.

Klaus shrugged. "He's a politician, Boris. They seem to specialize in gestures of insincere hospitality."

Boris chuckled to himself as he watched the ever-meticulous young man return to his work. They seemed to see less and less of each other as the years wore on, and though Boris certainly did not envy any of his predecessors in this position, he was grateful at least that this new assignment would allow him to spend a little more time with Klaus. They had proven to be a formidable team in the past, after all.

Boris and Klaus first met during the Greenhill campaign in the latter days of the Unification War, some months after the Windamiers had defected to the Allied side and barely a week after General Ridley very reluctantly acquiesced to his son's demands for permission to abandon his studies abroad to come home and fight for his country. The two men, both the "privileged, pretty boy sons of rough, hard-ass generals," as Klaus humorously put it, hit it off almost instantly, sharing a mutual love of literature and history as well as a similar educational background in classical military strategy. For all that they held in common, however, the fact of their friendship still amazed Boris at times, for under only slightly different and far from unthinkable circumstances, they could have been mortal enemies.

It wasn't just that Klaus had been a loyal and dedicated member of Highland's Royal Army, but it had been Kiba and Klaus Windamier who spearheaded Highland's assault on Two River during the Unification War, employing a rather devious tactic concocted by Klaus to pit the city's segregated population against each other. Klaus believed that stoking the existing racial tensions would hopelessly cripple any attempts at a unified resistance, and his plan likely would have worked, had it not been for the ability of Lord Riou to inspire the human, kobold, and winger populations to put aside their differences and work together to push back the Third Company's attack.

Far from embittered by the loss, Klaus was truly inspired by Riou's ability to "join people's hearts together," and privately admitted that in his own heart and conscience, he had all but defected to Riou's side that very day.

As for Boris, he found it difficult to fault Klaus for his tactics; he was sure that there was not a single prejudiced bone in the man's body, and had to concede that if he had been the one in Klaus' position at the time, he likely would have implemented the same strategy.

Amazingly, or perversely, Boris thought, it took the near invasion of Two River by Highland for many of its residents to fully recognize the injustices and indeed the dangers of the city's segregationist policies, and begin to demand long overdue reforms. In his own way, it could certainly be argued that Klaus Windamier had done more to advance the cause of civil rights in Two River than most in the city's ruling political class had over the course of the past several decades.

"Well, that should just about do it," Klaus announced, snapping his fingers as he strode toward the mahogany tea table. "Now all we need is the governor."

"You said he was in a meeting?" Boris asked.

"Of sorts, yes. A rather impromptu meeting, I suppose, trying to get his assemblymen in line."

"What for?"

"The assembly is scheduled to vote on the provincial budget early next week," Klaus explained, "and the governor would very much like to see it passed on time."

"You…think it might be held up?"

Klaus shrugged as he refilled his teacup. "Well, you know how it is, Boris. Everyone wants to promote their little pet projects as entirely necessary and proper while denouncing everyone else's as entirely wasteful and selfish. Politics as usual, so they say."

Boris laughed. "So he's trying to keep everyone happy, then."

"'Appeased' may be the more accurate term in this case, but yes, that's basically it." He shuddered. "I'll tell you, though, whatever fight there ends up being here is going to be an absolute _cakewalk_ compared to the upcoming battle over the federal budget."

Boris rolled his eyes. "Why do you insist on getting involved in all that, Klaus?"

"I really have no choice," Klaus replied, his expression turning serious. "I mean, for all intents and purposes, I'm the lead strategist of our entire military now, so it falls to me to take assessments and make recommendations of what's worth investing in and what's not. And, for better or worse, that involves dealing with the Senate and the Assembly. With any luck, I'll be able to secure the necessary funding and resources we'll need to put down this rebellion." He scoffed. "But with this lot, I can't make any promises."

"I-I see," Boris managed after something of an awkward pause.

Klaus, taking note of the somewhat contentious tone their once friendly conversation had taken, moved quickly to change the subject. "So Boris, did you get yourself some tea?"

"Ah, not yet actually," Boris replied. "But I'll have a cup now."

"I'll pour it for you," Klaus said. "Do you take sugar?"

"Yes, three cubes, please."

"Did you say three cubes?" Klaus asked incredulously.

"Yeah, three, thanks."

His eyes widened. "Three cubes? Three _fucking_ cubes?" he whispered. "My God, Boris, how do you stand it?"

"It's good!" he exclaimed. "You should try it sometime."

"One is often too many for my tastes," Klaus said with a grimace as he handed Boris the teacup. "Though, I'll admit that I can't drink it completely straight either. Still, three cubes of sugar...you may as well be drinking tea-flavored _syrup_ at that point."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Boris answered with a grin.

Klaus shook his head. "We do come from different worlds, don't we Boris?"

"Eh, I don't hold it against you," Boris said as he playfully punched Klaus in the arm. "Speaking of all this, we should have dinner tonight. It's been too long since we've gotten together."

"I'd love that," Klaus sighed. "But unfortunately, it won't be possible. I have to set back for the capital as soon as we're finished here, and I'm afraid that you're going to find yourself quite busy tonight as well."

"Putting me to work already, boss?"

"I've obtained search warrants for several locations in Sajah Village," Klaus explained, producing a small yellow envelope from his pocket. "It's a relatively small settlement northwest of here, not far from the Harmonian border. You're going to be leading a squad there tomorrow to execute these warrants and investigate reports we've been getting of rebel activity in the area."

"Sajah?" Boris asked between sips of his heavily sweetened tea. "Isn't that rather...remote? I was under the impression that most of these attacks had been taking place in and around the city."

"They have," Klaus acknowledged. "However, we've broken up a fair number of these small rebel cells here in the city over the past several months, and yet the attacks continue at a seemingly equal rate. This leads me to believe that one or possibly more of these groups may be coordinating and planning their attacks in, as you say, a more remote location. One that has to this point been far less subject to government surveillance."

"And you want to correct that," Boris inferred.

"For the time being, it's necessary. It's not only that our side hasn't been monitoring Sajah closely enough," Klaus said grimly, "the other issue is that the Harmonians may be paying it a bit too much attention for our tastes."

"What do you mean?" Boris asked, his voice laced with concern.

"We've identified at least one Harmonian agent working within our borders, and for all we know, he could be one of many."

Boris sighed. "Shit, that is not good."

"Well, I wouldn't read too much into it at this point," Klaus said, taking a seat next to Boris on the upholstered leather sofa. "If I've learned one thing about Harmonia from reading its history and from my own time spent studying there, it's that its leaders tend to be more opportunistic than ruthless. They've certainly taken an interest in our fledgling little rebellion here, and if they became seriously convinced that one of these groups could pose a real threat to the Union, I doubt that they would hesitate to support them. But as far as I can tell, no such group exists. These little 'militias' can certainly make a spectacle of themselves by attacking an outpost or a post office here and there, but in realistic terms, at this point, they pose no real threat to long-term stability."

"So what you're saying then is that without Harmonian support, these guys have no chance."

"Exactly. So your mission is going to be about keeping these rebel groups small and scattered. Keep them on the run, cut off their contact with one another, and eventually they'll die out. As much as the Harmonians may covet this land, they're not about to back a weak horse."

"That does make sense," Boris admitted. "But what makes you so convinced that the Harmonians wouldn't just send in their own army? They have the resources, don't they? If they're so interested in this territory, why even bother with the rebels? They could just swoop in and it make it their own state."

Klaus frowned. "'Swoop in?' Do you really think so little of our army?"

Boris was flustered. "No, no, that's not what I meant! All I meant was-"

"I was kidding, Boris," Klaus smiled, cutting him off. "But in all seriousness, if Harmonia was planning to launch a straightforward attack on Dunan, don't you think they would have tried it by now? They had their most ideal opportunity, right after the war. In fact, between Lord Riou's decision to leave the country and Tinto's withdrawal from the Union agreement, that was a very real concern some of us had in the early days."

"I remember that," Boris said. "Lord Shu asked my father to lead a few thousand troops up here to keep an eye on the border."

Klaus nodded. "Determent. It worked then, and I suspect it will work now."

"Still," Boris mused, stroking his chin, "like you say, it would have been the perfect opportunity. I have to think that if I was working as a strategist for Harmonia at the time, I certainly would have considered it."

"You can be sure it was considered," Klaus agreed. "However, Harmonia's predicament throughout most of its history is that it's simply been too big to manage. Divert their military toward adventurism in Dunan, and they risk losing their holdings in the Grasslands. You know, as proud as we were back in those days, in retrospect, Harmonia really didn't regard Highland as its own country at all; to them, we were just a vassal state, a tool they could use to fight a proxy war with Jowston. It explains why they backed Luca Blight, who they thought ambitious enough to conquer the State but stupid enough to control, and why they never supported Jowy Blight, who essentially wanted to recreate this land as its own larger, independent state."

"In the end, Harmonia wasn't going to win either way."

"Right. People often overlook this, but Jowy Blight was no friend of Harmonia; they almost certainly regarded him as a threat. Because at the end of the day, they knew well that whether it was Jowy Blight or Lord Riou or Lord Shu running the country, none of them were going to sit idly by while Harmonia flexed its muscle in this territory. So even though in some ways it would seem like Harmonia had the perfect opening to expand into Dunan right after the war, in the end, they were simply unwilling to take the risk. I daresay that we are in a far stronger position today than we were a decade ago, but make no mistake: there are a great many in Harmonia that regard the inaction of ten years past as a missed opportunity, and would very much like to correct that mistake now."

"If it ever came to that," Boris wondered aloud, "open war against the Harmonian Army, do you really think we could hold them back?"

"I'd give us the advantage, actually," Klaus said earnestly. "Never underestimate the power of a people determined to preserve their own independence and national identity. A lesson I learned firsthand from the good people of Two River."

Boris shook his head. "You're something, Klaus, you know that? At the risk of sounding unpatriotic, I'm actually grateful that I was out of the country back then. I'm glad that we never had to meet as enemies."

Klaus smiled. "As am I, friend."


	2. Chapter II

**An Imperfect Union: A Story of the Higheast Rebellion**

**Chapter II**

For all of the noise being made lately about this new "Commander of the National Guard," Marco Atreides thought, he hadn't exactly made a sweeping entrance.

By all accounts, Boris Wizen had arrived, not only in the city but supposedly at the palace itself, where he was probably already in attendance at this much-hyped "strategy meeting" with the governor and Klaus Windamier. A meeting that most seemed to believe would result in a master plan to stamp out these pesky Higheast rebels, once and for all.

_Just when it was starting to get interesting, of course. _

At the end of the day, Marco figured, these ragtag groups of thrill-seekers and true believers could take some measure of pride in the fact that they had managed to capture the attention of the central government. But with the "best and the brightest" in Dunan now solidly lined up against them, how could any of these brave, crazy fools possibly expect to survive?

Wizen, as the papers made incessantly clear, was regarded as one of the finest officers in the federal army; a man who had proven himself more than worthy over the past decade of his father's considerable legacy. And Windamier was supposed to be some sort of strategic genius; a top graduate of Soledt, a widely renowned prodigy even before the great Shu had taken him under his wing.

To Marco, it was all too clear how this was going to end, and it wasn't going to be pretty. The feds were going to make an example of somebody; they'd send in Wizen and his guys to bust up one of the larger rebel groups, probably the "New White Wolves," and whoever they didn't kill, they'd throw the book at. That was going to be the new ultimatum: if you got involved with the rebels, you were either going to prison or you were going to die. Either way, your life would be pretty much over, and the prospect of that was already enough of a deterrent for most people Marco knew.

For many young men of Marco's age, too young to have seen action in the Unification War, the defining conflict of their generation, the prospect of an armed uprising against the Republic to restore the old Highland had the potential to be the perfect proving ground. Marco lost track of all the drunken conversations he had had over the years with guys who liked to claim that if only _they_ could have been in the Royal Army at the time, those State bastards wouldn't have had a chance.

Of course, Marco was convinced that most if not all of them were completely full of shit. If they actually meant any of it, wouldn't they be out there fighting, proving their point? The rebellion was in dire need not only of fighters, but of recruiters, spies, protectors, and strategists. There were plenty of opportunities out there for anyone who really wanted to get involved, it was just that the hypocrites never had any intention of taking them. No, nobody wanted to _be_ a hero these days, they just wanted to talk about it. Slumped over in a bar at the end of a long workweek, bitching about what might have been, or what they vainly thought might still be.

In any case, it was hopeless, he had long since concluded. Because no matter how much nostalgia these guys may have had for their old Highland Kingdom, the reality was that the vast majority of them were doing far better under the rule of these "State bastards" than they ever would be under the rule of any Highland king. Under the new system, citizens had the right to vote, unionize, speak, write, and protest freely without fear of government retribution. For many longtime Highland subjects, these were incredible luxuries that they were entirely unaccustomed to, but Dunan's constitution insisted that these were essential, inalienable rights; rights to which all of her citizens were inherently entitled.

Marco had to laugh at the fact that he, a son of disgraced Highland nobility now reduced to working as a lowly government postal clerk, was among the very few left who could convincingly claim that he might actually be faring _better_ under Highland's bygone royalist model than he was under the current constitutional system. For generations, being an Atreides in Highland meant something; they were second tier nobles, to be sure, never as powerful or highly regarded as the military dynasties like the Jhees or the Windamiers. Still, it meant you were somebody; a clear step above of the common people his half-brother always insisted on associating with.

If anyone should be leading this would-be revolution, shouldn't it be him? Wasn't it fitting that a scion of one of Highland's most prominent families would be leading the charge to restore the Kingdom to its former glory?

_Get real, Marco,_ he thought ruefully. _What self-respecting Highland revolutionary would ever be stupid enough to trust an Atreides again? _

"Marc!" a shrill voice cut through his thoughts. "Marc, get over here!"

_What now?_ Marco thought grumpily as he turned toward his elderly manager. But, like any good public employee worth his salt, he had long since mastered the art of feigning a sunny disposition. "What do you need, Marnie?"

"Ah, there you are, Marc," she smiled, her tone much gentler now that she had caught her subordinate's attention. "You're going on your lunch hour pretty soon, right?"

He shrugged. "I guess so. Why? Do you need me to stay longer?"

"Actually," she began, picking up a large, overstuffed envelope from the counter, "I was thinking that you could take off a bit early, and drop this off at the academy on your way out."

"What is it?" he asked, taking the envelope from her hands.

"Just read it," she answered with a knowing smirk.

Curious, he flipped it over to the other side. "_ATTN: Cmdr. B. Wizen, DNGC,"_ it read.

Marco was stunned. "W-wait a minute," he asked skeptically. "This is for Wizen? _The_ Commander Wizen?"

"I guess so," she chuckled. "He's the only Wizen that I know of. Well, except for the father, but he's a general, not a commander."

"Wow," he marveled. "Boris Wizen..."

"A little starstruck, are we?" she teased. "Well, who knows? You might actually get to meet the guy."

Marco kicked himself mentally for showing such reverence toward a _Union_ soldier, even one as notable as the storied Commander Wizen. He hated the idea that he was no more immune to Dunan's propaganda than any other sap.

"Hold on," he said, compensating for his embarrassment with a newly serious tone. "I don't think Wizen is at the academy."

She frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"That girl that works at the gate was here a little earlier," he explained. "I overheard her saying that she'd brought Wizen up to Jay's office with Windamier."

"Ah," she said airily. "This 'strategy session' everyone's been talking about."

"Right. So shouldn't I just bring it up there?"

She paused for a moment, considering Marco's suggestion. "You do have a point," she admitted. "However, I'm very reluctant to interrupt that meeting. Lord Windamier, from what I've heard, is a very patient man, though I can't necessarily say the same about our governor. We certainly don't need anyone losing their jobs here."

"But what good will bringing it to the academy do?"

"Commander Wizen has his office set up at the military academy for the time being," she explained. "Apparently, he plans to make great use of our local officer cadets. Though I've heard that he's also brought along a group of his men from Two River to assist them."

Marco didn't doubt that for a second. There had been rumors going around for months now about potential rebel sympathizers or even spies working inside the academy. Whether there was any truth to these rumors or if they had merely been a clever rebel tactic designed to incite tension within the ranks, Marco had no way of knowing. He did know, however, that the military was not about to take any chances; Wizen had been loudly trumpeted as the man who was at long last to drive the final nail into the rebellion's coffin, and his assassination could prove as great a victory for the Higheast rebels as it would be a crushing blow to the central republic. Of course they were going to bring in outside people to protect him.

"Alright," Marco said. "I guess I'll go over there now. Anything else you need me to do before I head out?"

She shook her head. "No, go ahead Marc, see you in an hour. Enjoy the weather!"

"Will do," Marco said with a smile and a dutiful tip of his cap. They liked that, Marco knew; it fit in perfectly with the whole "friendly postman" image the government so liked to push.

As he exited the bustling halls of Higheast's Provincial Palace, Marco was greeted by the equally bustling streets of Higheast city. It was a familiar ritual for the young postman, and indeed for anyone who lived in or frequented this city. A place once characterized by the rigidity of its strict royal laws, the city once known as L'Renouille had been transformed over the past decade into a lively, freewheeling commercial mecca, restructured largely in the image of the provincial governor, and de facto city mayor, a multimillionaire who had made his fortune in the hotel business. Though it could no longer claim to be the center of national political power, Higheast remained the single largest and most populous city in the Union, a veritable goldmine of commerce and culture.

For an ambitious young man seeking to carve out a name for himself in the world, the happening city of Higheast would seem an obvious place to start. But it was not the promise of opportunity that drew Marco back to his old homeland's capital. Indeed, if the last surviving member of the fallen House Atreides was looking for a place to make a fresh start, he certainly could have chosen wiser than the onetime capital city of the nation that, in the eyes of many, his half-brother had basically destroyed.

In the final months of his life, Marcel Atreides advised his son to look to Muse, the war-ravaged Dunan capital practically brimming with opportunities as it continued its valiant struggle to rebuild. If not Muse, perhaps Northwind, the unassuming coastal town that had seen its economy and population explode during the war when it became the unlikely central command post of the Dunan Alliance forces. He could even head as far south as the Toran Republic, a distant land that would effectively be a whole new world of its own, and also where that coward Captain Rowd supposedly fled to when the war started to go south.

Faced with a slew of equally promising, and infinitely safer options, Marco still wondered at times just what it was that had drawn him back to this city in particular.

_In some ways, I guess I'll always be a Highlander_, Marco reasoned. _No matter what happens._

He wasn't about to let Jowy take that away from him. Even if he had already taken everything else, right down to the family name.

More than anything, that was what really got to him: he could no longer live as an Atreides. As far as the government was concerned, he was "Marc Anders," a nobody. Just another Harmonian emigrant flocking to Dunan in pursuit of the greater freedoms and opportunities it offered. It was a completely believable story; after all, even though the Holy Kingdom of Harmonia remained the envy of the world for its top class art, technology, and education, it still stubbornly clung to one of the most backward societal structures imaginable.

If one was not born a certain way in Harmonia, there were strict and very real limits on how far one could advance through the ranks of its society. It was the reason that so many foreign students worked so rapidly to complete their studies, then got the hell out of there and never looked back. For Marco and so many other of his starry-eyed peers, who had grown up looking at Harmonia from afar as an almost magical land of near endless possibilities, they quickly learned upon their arrival that it was largely a dead-end street for all but the highest of its native elite.

_But where else could the Atreides family possibly have gone?_

Thoroughly convinced that his treacherous stepson would use his newfound power to pilfer the Atreides fortune, or worse, Marcel rushed his wife and son off of their picturesque Kyaro estate, and out of King Jowy Blight's Highland.

Given the circumstances, the family had little choice but to head north. It was true that their neighbors to the south offered more promising prospects for the Atreides' to reestablish themselves, but to reach the providence of Toran or Falena, they would first need to cross through the State, a move Marcel thought akin to suicide. Even if they didn't manage to stumble right into the middle of a war zone, what was to say that the ruthless State leaders wouldn't seek to capture the new Highland king's estranged, beloved mother and use her as leverage?

No, Marcel was too devoted a father and husband, or perhaps merely too proud a man, to ever allow that to happen. He could never tolerate a member of his family, his prestigious Atreides "clan," to be so humiliated, so marginalized; reduced to serving as a mere bargaining chip of the State.

Perhaps a meritocracy like Zexen, the merchant nation far to the west, would have been a more accommodating place for an experienced financier like Marcel. But the Atreides patriarch was not about to subject his family to a perilous journey through the savage wilds of the Grasslands just to get there. So, Harmonia it was, where the onetime Highland nobles could perhaps reclaim some semblance of the lavish life they once knew, and where Marco could still obtain a suitable education worthy of his prestige and talents.

_Education_, his father had insisted; education was the key. A world-class Harmonian education could get Marco anywhere in this crazy world. So, off went the family fortune, along with the family name, poured into the finest schools the Atreides money could afford, while Marcel and Rosa worked themselves quite literally to death to ensure that their son could come home to ample food on the table and a roof over his head.

To Marco, watching his dear parents, the honorable Lord and Lady Atreides of Highland, reduced to the status of little more than peasants of an oppressive, unfeeling Harmonia, was to bear witness to the worst kind of indignity. And it had all been for him.

_All for him_.

No, it couldn't be; it just _couldn't_ be that simple. Marcel never said as much, but to Marco, his wish for his son was clear: redeem the family name.

_Redeem the family name._

It was this dream, quixotic as it may be, that kept "Marc Anders" from revealing himself to the public as Marco Atreides. He could have easily cashed in on his famous name by now; the estranged half-brother of Highland's ever-controversial final king would undoubtedly be an attractive interview subject to the multitude of journalists and historians looking to rush out their retrospective books and articles in time for the tenth anniversary. But for now, Marco, educated yet penniless, would hold his tongue.

Slowly but surely, he would rebuild himself, and in remaking himself, he would restore the honor of the family name. One day, the world would not associate the name "Atreides" with Jowy, Highland's fatally disastrous boy king, but with Marco, the man who would reclaim the glory not only of the House Atreides, but of the entire Highland Kingdom!

He sighed. _That's a tall order, pal._

It certainly didn't help that nearly everything in this city had a way of _somehow_ reminding him of Jowy.

As he gazed upon the towering equestrian statue of the late General Han Cunningham, erected just outside the gates of the provincial military academy that bore his name, Marco could hardly fathom the idea that this man, this _legend_, had at one point actually _worked for_ Jowy; served directly under Jowy's command as one of the Royal Army's top generals.

How could that be? How could a giant like Cunningham, this fabled war hero that Highland youths of his day had been taught to practically worship, have ever possibly taken orders from a mosquito like Jowy? Fought and died valiantly in his defense at the Battle of L'Renouille?

_What a waste._

The very thought of such a noble hero as Cunningham, laying down his life for such a petty villain as Jowy, could make Marco feel physically ill. There was no way, Marco reasoned, that Jowy, the ignoble, frivolous pipsqueak he had once been forced to call his elder brother, could have ever measured up to someone as iconic as General Cunningham. Yet the burning, stinging reality was impossible to ignore: not only had Jowy matched Han Cunningham, in a way, he had actually _surpassed_ him.

Jowy Atreides, of all people, ahead of Marco, ahead of anyone and everyone else, had been Han Cunningham's chosen successor; a child of destiny divinely selected to take up Cunningham's Black Sword Rune once again in the name of the Highland Kingdom. Of course, in defending the homeland, Jowy had miserably failed where Cunningham gloriously succeeded, and yet even still, Jowy had achieved something more: Jowy became a king.

Han Cunningham never became King; he probably never even dreamed of it. Someone as honorable, as decent, as true as General Cunningham would never think of taking up arms against the royal family, of betraying his liege to whom he had pledged such a sacred oath. No, he never would; Cunningham had been so committed to his oath of royal knighthood that he had died in the defense of a fraud, simply because he bore the name "Blight." That was where Jowy was different.

And that, Marco convinced himself, was the only explanation; the only way that someone as petty and insignificant as Jowy Atreides could have ever succeeded someone like Han Cunningham and inherited the claim to his rune: by being the very antithesis of what the Highland Kingdom of Han Cunningham and Agares Blight ever stood for: manipulative, cunning, treacherous, _evil_.

_How could this have happened?_ Marco still wondered, seething with rage as he stared into the mark of the Black Sword, carved prominently into the bronze. It was as if the sculptor had intended to mock him, removing Cunningham's right gauntlet so that the rune was in full view, a constant reminder of the destiny that Jowy had laid claim to, however briefly, and that Marco would never be able to call his own.

Hell, Jowy wasn't even supposed to be able to surpass _him_, never mind giants like Cunningham or the Blights. Marco was the golden boy, the favorite son, the undisputed heir to the Atreides fortune and legacy. _Jowy_...Jowy was an afterthought. A bastard outcast, not even a full-blooded member of the Atreides clan. An ungrateful little prick infuriatingly indifferent to his own good fortune, that a noble Highland gentleman like Marcel would even give someone like him the time of day, much less adopt him into his family and allow him to live in his house.

_Enough_.

Marco forced his eyes away from Cunningham's towering, immortal form, thoroughly disgusted that the image of such a renowned hero served only to evoke feelings of such bitter hatred and resentment toward a most detestable villain. One that, Marco reminded himself, would never be honored with his namesake on federal buildings, with statues erected in his memory, with his portrait emblazoned on the national currency.

_At least there was some semblance of justice left in this fucked up world._

"Hey kid! Are you...looking for something?"

Marco turned to see a young man, about his age, outfitted in a tailored, heather gray uniform not dissimilar to his own. The difference, of course, was that this man was an officer, or perhaps merely a cadet. Either way, an officer of Dunan's military was entitled to certain privileges that a city postman most certainly was not; a postman would never wear a sword, or medals, or epaulets.

"Um...yeah," Marco managed, feeling a bit sheepish in the presence of his much better decorated colleague. "I'm Marc Anders, with the postal service. I'm supposed to deliver this to, ah, _Commander Wizen._"

As Marco expected, the mention of the new National Guard Commander's name noticeably piqued the soldier's interest. "Boris Wizen, eh?" he said, taking a closer look at the package as Marco held it up for him to observe. "Wait, did they tell you he was here?"

"Well, not exactly," Marco admitted. "Actually, I'm pretty sure that he's back at the palace. But, either way, this is where they told me to take it."

"At the palace?" The soldier appeared genuinely surprised. "Shit, I had no idea. I didn't even realize that he'd made it into Higheast already."

"Yeah, he's definitely here," Marco said. "Windamier too. They're probably both in that big 'strategy meeting' right now, as we speak."

"Windamier too?" The soldier shook his head. "Wow...well, I guess they managed to avoid getting shot."

"I guess so!" Marco replied, suppressing a chuckle. Gallows humor was all well and good, though he was careful not to appear _too_ excited about the prospect of Wizen, or Windamier, or Jay, or even President Wisemail getting pumped full of arrows courtesy of a particularly zealous "New White Wolf," however unlikely that scenario might be.

The soldier laughed as he moved to unlatch the gate. "See? You're way more up on this shit than I am, working at the palace. They never tell us anything here."

Marco found himself rather taken aback by this remark. If the rebels had their people stationed anywhere on the inside, he had always assumed, they had to be operating within the walls of the academy, didn't they? What better place for them? The academy was the epicenter, the very heart of the Higheast Provincial Defense Forces. Where else would an agent of the rebellion be in a position to alert his commanders to upcoming raids, perhaps even work to sabotage them from within?

But here, they never told them "anything?" A decorated military officer from Cunningham Academy had actually been impressed by his, a common postman's, internal knowledge?

The wheels in his mind began furiously turning once again. For as long as Marco had ever heard of such a thing as a "Higheast Rebellion," these groups of fiercely loyal, militant ex-Highlanders who steadfastly refused to accept the result of the last war, refused to believe that the venerable Highland Kingdom was to be forever relegated to the pages of history, he had all but fantasized about the prospect of joining their ranks.

And yet, for all of this dreaming, he was faced with the same, inevitable question every time the notion crossed his mind: what use could someone like him ever possibly be? What place was there among these militias of battle-hardened war veterans and sellswords for an admittedly pampered ex-noble, with no military training, and a degree in "international finance," of all things?

From his lowly perch at the city's largest post office, Marco could hope to be little more than yet another undistinguished pair of eyes and ears, perhaps called upon from time to time by the _real_ rebels to perform some menial, mundane task, but never truly earning their respect, and certainly not positioning himself to become a key leader in "the movement."

So, every semester that went by, it seemed, Marco would go to great lengths to secure the formidable stack of paperwork he would need to apply for acceptance into the provincial military academy. From there, he could, at the very least, develop some level of skill with a sword, perhaps gain some basic understanding of Dunan's conventional military tactics, and, with any luck, stumble upon some grave, vitally important piece of information that would reveal to the valiant rebels just where, when, and how they needed to strike in order to deliver a killing blow to the Republic's illegitimate provincial government.

And, every semester, he could never quite make himself go through with it. The words of his father were a constant echo in his mind; the Atreides men, the _real _Atreides men, as Marcel constantly reminded him, were not "men of the sword." They were men of business, finance, mathematics, responsibility, practicality.

_Stick to the plan._ Stay in school, work hard, apply yourself. Forget those "romantic" dreams of running off to Zexen to join the "Mighty Knights." Complete your education, live under this new name "Anders" and attach yourself to some promising craftsman or entrepreneur in Dunan, or Toran if you must. Either way, stay the hell out of the military; stay the hell out of politics in general.

_Look where it got your fucking brother._

But how else was Marco ever to surpass Jowy if he was not willing to take some of these risks himself? What wildly successful business venture had ever gotten itself off of the ground without a great degree of _risk?_

_Marcel could hardly argue with that._

_An informant._ It was fitting, wasn't it? That was how Jowy had gotten his start; how he had begun his meteoric rise from an undistinguished junior cadet, to Luca Blight's right-hand man, to Commander of the Fourth Royal Company, to King of all of Highland...

Could an undistinguished, yet resourceful, ever-observant postal clerk possibly achieve the same thing?

_Yes...why the hell not?_ After all, he was more of an Atreides than Jowy could ever hope to be, and history had proven that treachery, pure, unadulterated _treachery,_ was in the Atreides' blood. Perhaps Marcel could rightfully disown the little bastard, God knows he tried, but for Marco, the matter was not so simple. The same blood that once flowed through Jowy Atreides' veins was now undeniably coursing through his; they did share a mother, after all, and that inescapable fact was about the only thing that kept Marco from ever referring to his hated half-brother as a "son of a bitch."

_Every goddamned time._

"You're clear, kid," the soldier said with a disarming smile as he pushed open the now unlocked front gate. "You can go right on in."

Marco offered a polite nod in response, but as he made his way onto the campus grounds of the _General Han Cunningham Provincial Military Academy_, his heart was now in a far more sinister place than it had been only moments before; moments before a casual, revelatory remark from a sociable officer cadet had inadvertently given Marco new hope for securing a position in the rebellion, and perhaps, his own coveted place in history.


End file.
